Goodnight Moon
by daymarket
Summary: AU. As a foster child, Murtagh hasn't been wanted by anyone for a long time now. But when he's taken into his cousins' 'Perfect Family,' he soon finds out there's more to them than meets the eye. In the midst of the chaos, love blooms... Eventual EraMur
1. Welcome to Suburbia

"We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them." –_The Moon and Sixpence_, W. Somerset Maugham

* * *

Murtagh rested his head against the window, staring down at the ground far below. At this altitude, the land below looked surreal, as if he could swipe it away with a flick of his hand. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he gazed down at the airport, wondering how long it would be before he was kicked out of _this_ particular foster home.

He snorted cynically as the thought came to him and leaned back in the uncomfortable airplane seat, one hand playing with the straps on his backpack. His record so far was one week—one particular 'foster mom' had apparently regarded those in the System as her own personal slaves; in return, he sold her laptop and diamond watch on ebay. She had been livid, of course, but Murtagh regarded it as justice: fuck with me, and I'll screw you right back.

"Murtagh."

Murtagh scowled, slumping deeper into his seat. Tornac, next to him, regarded him with a sort of world-weary patience. Sometimes, Murtagh felt sorry for Tornac—Tornac was a decent guy, just trying to do some good for the world on the pathetic pittance they gave social workers; he didn't deserve to be saddled with a headcase like Murtagh. Mostly, though, Murtagh was far too irritated with the world in general to care about Tornac's petty woes.

"Try not to scare them off, all right?" Tornac said quietly. "This is _it_, Murtagh. They're not just some set of foster parents; they're your family. Your aunt and uncle, your cousins—"

"Screw them," Murtagh muttered rebelliously.

"You can't 'screw them,' Murtagh. They've offered to adopt you. This is the real thing, Murtagh."

"Didn't want me, did they?" Murtagh snapped, hunching deeper into the seat. "Where were they for the past seven years, then?"

Tornac sighed, one of those exhausted sighs he did so well, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure they had their reasons," Tornac said tiredly. "The twins, Eragon and Saphira, well, Eragon has his little problem and Saphira is…headstrong. As for Roran—"

"Roran was busy screwing Katrina," Murtagh said, rolling his eyes.

"Well—I'm sure he was busy with other things, like getting a college degree and finding a job," Tornac said restrainedly. "And yes, he married Katrina. Just this past summer, as a matter of fact, so now you have a, ah, cousin-in-law. I think. I'm not too sure on familial relationships…" Tornac realized that his audience was rapidly losing interest and decided to try a different tack. "Look, Murtagh. You've been in, what, sixteen foster homes so far?"

Murtagh shrugged, still staring resolutely out the window.

"I know it can't be easy, going from home to home, especially considering what your birth parents did to you. But at the same time, just don't—don't—"

He looked at Murtagh's sullen face and sighed.

"Just don't decide to hate them before you've even met them, Murtagh. They're your family."

Murtagh's expression remained dark, and Tornac gave it up for the time being. The plane was landing; Murtagh would have to decide for himself soon enough.

* * *

They made their way through the airport formalities—no stops at the baggage pickup, as everything Murtagh owned was in his bag. The sixteen-year-old wore it slung casually over one shoulder, slouching sullenly in his dark red hoodie. Only his white-fisted knuckles, clenched tightly on the strap of his backpack, betrayed his apprehension.

They made their way to the lobby, where Tornac busied himself with fumbling with a sign that would announce their presence to Marian and Garrow. Standing hidden in Tornac's shadow, Murtagh slid a crumpled picture out of his pocket, staring fixedly at the photo. There was Marian and Garrow—_Aunt_ Marian, _Uncle_ Garrow—standing with their arms around each other, and then there were his cousins: Eragon, Saphira, and Roran.

Saphira and Eragon were fifteen-year-old twins, but they couldn't have looked more different: Saphira was a heartbreaker, with her luxurious dark blond hair framing a coy smile and deep sapphire eyes: no doubt that she had a train of guys panting after her like dogs in heat. Eragon, on the other hand, had mousy brown hair and a wan, heart-shaped face. Standing next to them, Roran dwarfed them both: a well-built guy who probably played college football at one point or another, his dyed auburn hair falling into his eyes as he beamed at the camera.

He hadn't seen them for bloody _years_. And then all of a sudden, they were seized by a sudden urge to adopt him out of the goodwill of their hearts? To become his family, just for the hell of it?

Ha. As if.

He snorted cynically, but his hands were gentle as he slipped the worn photo back into his pocket. He glanced at Tornac, who had located his sign. It said in cheery letters, _Mr. and Mrs. Palancar, your party is here!_ Murtagh's eyes scanned the crowd, wondering who among the sea of nameless faces would step forward to claim him.

He saw them before they saw him or Tornac. Two of them, just two, Marian and Garrow. Murtagh felt his heart give an involuntary jerk and cursed himself for it—so what if the whole family didn't come to pick him up? It wasn't as he gave a shit, anyway. He wasn't _really_ a part of the Family, after all.

Their eyes lit up as they spotted the sign, and Murtagh watched as their eyes flicked to rest on him, studying him appraisingly. He was well aware of the impression he gave—a sullen, ragged teenager with bad posture, bad acne, and most definitely a bad attitude. He narrowed his eyes, staring defiantly back at them—_you don't like me? Well, guess what, I don't care._

They approached him and Tornac, smiles spreading over their faces. Murtagh eyed them critically and gave them grudging points for enthusiasm; either they were so insane that they thought the One Big Happy Family idea really was going to work, or they were Oscar-worthy actors. Tornac shifted his sign to shake hands with Garrow, and the two beamed at each other with equally lunatic smiles.

"Mr. Ryerson," Garrow said, "I'm so glad you brought Murtagh to us. I know it must have inconvenienced you…"

"Oh no, no problem, no trouble," Tornac said heartily. "If you have any worries, any concerns, you have my number. I'll check up on him in a month or so, and Murtagh knows how to reach me if things go wrong."

Like he was a dog or something. _Oh, I'm so glad you took the time off to deliver little Fluffy to us...yes, if he starts pissing on the furniture or gnawing on your shoes, just give me a call and I'll send him right back to the pound, no worries…_

"Hello, dear," Marian—_Aunt_ Marian—said to him, jerking him out of his surly thoughts. Murtagh gave her a brooding look; she seemed unfazed, patting him on the shoulder. "You're a member of our family now, Murtagh," she said kindly. "I know we've been…well, a couple years slow, but better late than never, right?"

Murtagh shrugged and ignored her as she prattled on, her hand resting on his shoulder all the while. He jerked away from her touch as Tornac and Garrow finished their goodbyes.

"And Murtagh," Tornac said warningly as the greetings finished and as they prepared to leave. Murtagh half-turned, watching Tornac darkly. The older man deflated a little under the clear hostility in Murtagh's eyes, spreading his hands with a little sigh.

"What?" Murtagh snapped.

Tornac appeared to consider his options. "Just…try to settle down," he said at last. "And…don't do it again, okay?"

He obviously didn't want to scare Garrow and Marian off with a catalogue of all of Murtagh's crimes to date. Murtagh gave him a deliberately obtuse shrug. Two could play at this game.

"All right," he said out loud, giving Tornac a falsely angelic smile. "I won't do _it_ again. Especially not in the shower."

He turned to go and felt a dark thrill of satisfaction run through him at the politely revolted look on Marian's face as she tried and failed to pretend ignorance. Day one with foster family number 17 was looking to be very rosy indeed. Idly, he wondered how many more he would have.

* * *

The trip back to their house was uneventful; Marian kept trying to introduce the town to him as they drove by, pointing out various landmarks as they went—"Oh, that's the church, dear, and that's the old construction site, terrible fire there last year, no one knew what caused it, and ooooh, that's the school where you'll be going to, and that's the local supermarket, it's a BiLo, but that's a bit of an oxymoron as it's actually incredibly expensive, we prefer Wal-mart…"

Murtagh tuned her out, staring listlessly out the window. But he couldn't help but be impressed by the house: two floors, an attic, a basement. Three bedrooms, two guestrooms, three bathrooms, one enormous kitchen, a living room, a dining room, and a rec center in the basement. He tried not to be overwhelmed by the splendor around him; with his luck, he wouldn't be surprised if they made him sleep in a closet. One foster 'dad' had tried to do that, and had been rewarded the next day with long, jagged tears in all his suits where Murtagh had taken to them with a kitchen knife.

Fortune, however, chose to favor him that day. Marian showed him to one of the guestrooms on the second floor, a respectable affair with furniture and carpet already in place. "It's a bit empty right now, I'm afraid," she said apologetically, gesturing at the unfilled bookshelf and closet. "We'll go shopping sometime to fill it all up, though, so don't worry."

Murtagh gave a noncommittal shrug as he sat down with a heavy thump on the bed. He could see Marian almost visibly wince as his filthy, unwashed self made contact with the padded quilt that had probably been handed down through generations and was a priceless relic that could be sold for millions on the internet. He pretended to be oblivious, scanning the room with an almost insulting air. "Thanks," he said finally. "It's nice. I guess."

"Um…yes," Marian said, wringing her hands. She hesitated, then said, "Dear, would you mind terribly, taking a bath? Or a shower, if you prefer. We're used to taking showers, but whatever you like. It's been a long journey, and you probably need to freshen up…"

"I don't have any clothes," Murtagh pointed out.

Marian eyed him calculatingly. "I'll get you some of Eragon's," she decided finally. "He's a bit smaller than you, but some of his larger clothes might fit. He did want to come to pick you up, dear," she added, "but he had a doctor's appointment, you see. He should be back soon, though."

Murtagh shrugged his indifference; Marian floundered, obviously unsure of what to say. "Um…I'll go get the clothes, shall I?"

Murtagh twiddled his thumbs and waited as thumping noises came from the room next door as Marian rummaged through Eragon's drawers, finally returning with a light gray shirt, baggy jeans, and boxers decorated with a motif of dancing lions. Murtagh raised an eyebrow as he took the clothes gingerly in one hand but didn't comment.

"Thanks," he said at last.

Marian paused—she seemed to be waiting for something more. When nothing else was forthcoming, she made quite a production of bustling away, saying as she closed the door, "Well, dear, the bathroom's down the hall, anytime you're ready…"

Murtagh waited until he was sure she had gone back downstairs before tiptoeing quietly to the door and locking it with a satisfactory click. He turned and regarded his new room with a calculating air for a moment, studying each and every object in it with a critical eye.

It was a nice room. A nice house, as far as foster houses went.

He stood there for a moment longer before heading back to the bed, reaching for his backpack. He unzipped it slowly—there wasn't that much in it, anyway. A few bucks, his toothbrush, a rock from some forgotten age, a crumpled packet of smokes that he'd managed to sneak past airport authorities and Tornac—no lighter, unfortunately, but he'd find one soon enough.

Squashed underneath all the junk was a stuffed animal, ragged and worn. It might have been a red dog once, but time had worn it down to a faint pink and one of the eyes was missing. Murtagh set it carefully on his bed, feeling silly and comforted all at once as he stroked the battered head with gentle fingers.

"Hiya, Thorn," he said quietly.

He made Thorn's head move; his ears twitch. Thorn's smile was sewn into place, but it still seemed as if the dog was smiling just for Murtagh, every single time. "Heya, Murtagh," he said in Thorn's voice, the tone warm and comforting, everything that Murtagh wanted in a father.

Murtagh patted his head, relaxing slightly. It was childish to keep on pretending, he knew that, but he couldn't bring himself to throw his only friend away, even if that friend was just a figment of his imagination. One day, maybe, he was going to have to face the reality that at age sixteen, he _still_ had an imaginary friend.

But no. Not today.

"Nothing," he said at last, sitting down on the bed next to Thorn. "Just—well, here I am. Home. Supposedly."

Thorn was quiet for a moment. "You think it's not going to work, huh?"

Murtagh flopped back on the bed, throwing his hands up into the air. "Let's see…I'm a chronic klepto, I smoke, I've failed almost every class I've been in, I look like a classic hoodlum, and oh, now I supposedly wank in the shower. The only thing I've got going for me with these perfect people with their perfect house and their perfect lives is that I'm related to them through my mother. Thing is, for nine years they hardly cared, why should they start now?" He paused, breathing hard. "I give it a month. On the outside."

"It's not that bad, surely," Thorn said softly. "You used to be able to stay longer than just a month or two, you know. There was a time, for a year—"

Murtagh laughed tiredly. "Yeah, when I was eight."

"Don't knock it before you've tried it, at least," Thorn said. "You've only got two more years to go before you turn eighteen and get out of the System."

"To what?" Murtagh said, exasperated. "You know the statistics, probably better than I do. Over half of all foster kids end up on the street once they're out."

"Hey, stop feeling sorry for yourself," Thorn said sharply. "Two years is a long time. You never know what might happen. Like Tornac said—give them a chance, at least. Don't just automatically hate them."

Murtagh stared at Thorn for a long time; the dog's one eye met his gaze squarely. "I hate it when you sound like my conscience," Murtagh grumbled. "I thought I killed it a long time ago."

His head jerked up as a knock sounded on the door. Murtagh hastily stuffed Thorn back into his bag and made sure that his bag was securely zipped shut before heading to the door, cracking it open a couple inches. "Yeah?" he asked roughly as he regarded Marian.

"Is everything all right, dear? I thought I heard you saying something."

"I'm fine."

"Oh." Marian paused. "All right, then. I'm going to pick up Eragon. Uncle Garrow will still be here, though, so it's not like you'll be alone." She paused anxiously. "Are you _sure _you're all right, dear?"

"Yeah, fine," Murtagh said indifferently. He hesitated, feeling an unusual pang of shame at the curt tone of his voice. "I'll, um, go take a shower," he said at last. "Thanks."

Shutting the door in her face, he headed back to the bed, studiously avoiding his backpack all the while. No doubt that Thorn was smirking at him through the plastic.

He kicked the backpack under the bed, made sure that the cigarettes were securely hidden, grabbed the sad assortment of clothes, and headed for the shower.

* * *

Murtagh headed downstairs, toweling his hair dry as he explored the rest of the house. Garrow was in the living room, reading the morning's paper. He smiled absentmindedly at Murtagh as he rifled through the sports section. "Damn, the Rays lost," Garrow cursed, before looking up at his erstwhile nephew. "Oh, hey. There's food in the fridge, help yourself if you're hungry. But don't eat too much; Marian will be back soon."

Murtagh peered tentatively into the refrigerator, casting wary glances at his uncle. _Help yourself_ was a phrase he rarely heard; no doubt there had to be some catch. Best to test the boundaries now, so that he'd have time to plan revenge should things turn nasty. Murtagh grabbed a bag of Snickers and ripped it apart, letting the bars spill onto the kitchen table. He unwrapped a few with much crinkling and snapping, working his way through the bag.

Garrow was oblivious as he continued to pore over his damn paper. Huh.

The door slammed open, and Murtagh turned slightly as a blond supermodel stepped into the house, shrugging off her backpack. She stopped at the sight of Murtagh, regarding him with narrowed sapphire eyes; Murtagh returned the favor. "Who are you?" she said sharply, her aristocratic nose wrinkling ever so slightly.

Murtagh was about to fire back some nasty comment when Garrow looked up, smiling. "Hey, Saph," he said.

The blond, Saphira, continued to regard Murtagh suspiciously. "Is this Murtagh? Our cousin?" Her voice made the last word sound like an insult. Murtagh smirked at her, leaning indolently against the counter. Saphira was everything the picture was, and more--the picture hadn't quite captured her curvy figure or the sexy purr of her voice. It was just too bad that she wasn't _quite_ his type.

"Yes," Garrow said.

"Huh," she said finally as she tossed her bookbag onto a chair. Leaning over the table, she snagged a few Snickers bars of her own, continuing to eye him critically. "I'm Saphira, I guess," she said after taking a few bites.

"Cool," Murtagh said noncommittally.

"So, Saphira, how was school?" Garrow asked cheerfully, breaking the ice that was threatening to form.

Distracted, Saphira took her eyes off Murtagh as she answered her father; Murtagh took the opportunity to escape. He grabbed a few more chocolate bars and headed upstairs back to his room, locking the door behind him.

"So?" Thorn asked as Murtagh grabbed his pack out from under the bed and unzipped it, bringing the stuffed animal into view.

"Zip it," Murtagh said curtly. He pulled his cigarettes out from their hiding place and stuffed the crumpled pack into the pocket of his jeans. "Let's go out. I'm dying for a smoke."

"You don't have a lighter," Thorn pointed out.

"Fucking airport security checks," Murtagh grumbled.

"Don't swear," Thorn admonished.

"Shut _up_. There's a BiLo a few blocks away; I saw it on the way here. I'll work something out."

"You know, the first rule of playing the game of Happy Families is to stop shoplifting."

"How else am I supposed to get anything? Come on, let's go." Murtagh eyed the window with a calculating eye. Leaning his head out of it, he studied possible methods of descent. It opened to a view of the backyard, which fortunately didn't have a fence or anything like that. Once he got to the ground, he could just walk away. It would be a bit of a drop, but he wasn't afraid of heights.

Murtagh ducked his head back in, busying himself with the construction of a makeshift rope. It was more than just a simple smoke: he liked to have alternate routes of escape in case his foster parents locked him inside his room/closet/basement. Nothing quite pissed them off as escaping from his room when he was supposed to be grounded.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that," Murtagh muttered irritably under his breath at Thorn's accusatory gaze as he tied the rope to the bedpost. He shoved the stuffed animal back into his backpack and zipped it shut. Slinging it onto his shoulder, he muttered "Well, here goes nothing" under his breath before launching himself out the window.

Success on the first try. Murtagh braced himself against the wall for balance as he let himself slowly down the rope to avoid friction burns, praying that the knot he tied would hold his weight. He didn't test it for long before he jumped, landing heavily on the ground—midjudging the landing, he cursed as an aching pain ran up his leg. _Fuck_, just what he needed, a twisted ankle.

He limped to the wall, cursing repeatedly under his breath. At least no one had seen his antics, which was a small blessing, but still—his ankle couldn't bear his weight without aching pains shooting up and down it, how the hell was he supposed to get out of here when he couldn't walk?

He stayed crouched by the wall for a moment longer, wincing every time he tried to walk. "Shut _up_," he muttered to Thorn in between the cursing, imagining what his friend would say—something undoubtedly smug along the lines, "Well, karma, ain't it?"

"Now, _that's_ not very nice."

Murtagh looked up sharply to see Saphira, leaning against a tree not far away. The blond was eating a piece of toast now, perfect teeth glinting as she delicately nibbled. "Did anyone ever tell you that you have a foul mouth, cousin?"

"Fuck you," Murtagh answered wholeheartedly.

"Ooooh. And I wasn't even going to tell Mom anything about _these_." In between two manicured nails, she held up Murtagh's pack of cigarettes. Murtagh's eyes widened as he patted his pockets frantically, but they were empty. Of course—Saphira was holding them.

"Smoking is bad for you," Saphira continued. "It rots your lungs and when you get older, they have to cut a hole in your throat just so you can breathe. Plus, it gives you bad breath."

Murtagh didn't answer her taunts, eyes fixed on her. She wanted something. She'd never stay around to gloat if she didn't need this extra leverage to blackmail him. He clung to that thought, staring fixedly at her, and she smiled, tossing her hair.

"You look so cute glaring at me like that," she told him pertly. "Not going to work, I'm afraid. Roran already tried everything he has on me when I was younger, and it didn't scare me then, either. I think perhaps—"

"What do you _want_?" Murtagh snapped through clenched teeth.

She smiled again. "Nothing. We _are_ family, after all." As if by magic, a lighter appeared in her hand. "And I'll even give you a light, just because we're cousins."

She sidled closer, turning the wheel. The flame burst to life with a soft _snick_, dancing as she delicately picked a cigarette out of the box, lit it, and handed it to Murtagh. Murtagh accepted it wordlessly, staring at her all the while.

He took a cautious drag of the cigarette, exhaling smoke rings into her face. She sniffed delicately but didn't cough, which honestly, could only mean one thing. "Don't tell me you sneak them too," he said disgustedly. "You just said it was a filthy habit."

"Me?" Saphira said innocently. "Of course I don't, because it's a filthy, terrible habit." She smiled angelically, twirling the lighter in her fingers. "Stamp out the cigarette when you're done, all right? I'd hate to have my room burn up."

She tossed him the packet of smokes and tucked the lighter back into her pocket. "Hope your ankle gets better soon, cousin," she said over her shoulder as she sauntered into the house.

Murtagh's nose twitched as he stared at the space she'd just vacated, and he took another drag before mashing the cigarette onto the ground, and as per Saphira's orders, stamped on it with his uninjured foot until the fire was out. He couldn't afford to have his clothes smell of smoke, at least until he stole some air freshener or a new change of clothes, even.

Murtagh stayed crouched by the side of the wall for a moment longer before getting awkwardly to his feet and limping into the house. Saphira was in the kitchen, washing her hands—she gave Murtagh a dazzling smile that he didn't return. He couldn't help but notice the lighter sticking out of her jeans pocket. She had to be lying. How many girls carried something like that around on a daily basis, if they didn't smoke as well?

"Dad went out," she said in response to his stony but puzzled glare. "So it's just you and me. Is your face permanently stuck that way or what? Because honestly, the whole nasty glare thing is getting old."

Murtagh's scowl deepened, followed by the conviction that _nothing good_ was going to come out of this, dammit. He'd had little enough contact with the fairer sex over the past few years (or indeed, with humanity in general) and trading insults with an insultingly gorgeous girl was not going to improve the situation. But _damn_ if he was going to run away like a coward. "Don't lie," he said coldly.

"Lie?" Saphira asked, one perfect eyebrow raised as she shut off the water and dried her hands with a paper towel. "About what?"

"Who the fuck carries a lighter around if they don't smoke themselves?" Murtagh snapped waspishly, jamming his hands into his pockets.

"Who the fuck _doesn't_ carry one if they _do_ smoke?" she returned. "And besides, you didn't have to jump out the window, you know. Once Mom and Dad are asleep, they're dead to the world." She smiled. "Very easy to sneak out, really."

Murtagh regarded her through narrowed eyes. "And I suppose you'd know all about it," he said darkly.

"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," she said brightly. "But let's just say I've had a few midnight liaisons myself."

"Boyfriend?" Murtagh grunted, grudgingly interested despite himself.

"Maybe," she allowed. "You?"

Murtagh glanced sharply at her; there was nothing but interested innocence in her face. He shrugged noncommittally, not precisely ready to spill his guts out just yet. "Never stayed long enough," he muttered.

"Oh." Saphira was quiet for a moment. "Well, Mom mumbled something about adoption plans, so I guess you're going to stay here for quite a while, right?"

Murtagh snorted. "Yeah, you wish," he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. He made the mistake of glancing at Saphira and flinched away from her gaze, as it was no longer cool or condescending but instead held a nauseating measure of compassion.

"Stop looking at me that way," he growled.

She blinked. "What way? What, you think I'm going to cry over your sorry ass? Dream on. _Cousin._"

He grunted disbelievingly but didn't say anything. Saphira turned away, and her hair hid her expression from view. Murtagh fiddled with the hem of his shirt for a moment before standing up and heading upstairs. Behind him, the phone rang, but he ignored it, limping up to his room and slamming the door.

Someone had glued glow-in-the-dark stars onto the ceiling, forming the shape of the Big Dipper and a few other constellations that he didn't know. Murtagh dropped onto the bed heavily, staring fixedly up at the stars. His hand rested on Thorn's ragged fur, pulling the stuffed animal close.

"Well, I met Saphira," he breathed into Thorn's neck, nuzzling the threadbare ears. "What do you think, Thorn?"

Thorn gave a quiet chuckle, and Murtagh smiled. "She kind of reminds me of you," Thorn said. "Well, if you were a girl, that is. And about ten times better looking."

"Not my fault," Murtagh murmured.

"What, that you look like something the cat just dragged in?" Thorn teased gently.

"Shut up," Murtagh growled, scrubbing his face with his hands. He knew what he looked like—his _father_, goddammit, may the fucking drunkard rot in hell. From old pictures, he knew that he could probably be Morzan's twin—same dark hair, bad skin, thick eyebrows and shit-colored eyes. If there was any of Selena's blood in him, well, he certainly couldn't tell just by looking.

Murtagh crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to look slightly at Thorn. The stuffed animal's button eye was nearly falling off—again. Murtagh had fixed it at least three times over the years, always swearing that the _next time_ it happened, he was going to throw Thorn away. Stop the daydreams, kill off the imaginary friend, and get on with life.

_But what's so great about life?_

He scowled and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair. "Shut up," he said to nobody in particular, hating the sound of his own voice. It sounded flat and surly, a reminder that he'd never fit here, with these perfect people and their perfect life.

He heard the downstairs door open, Saphira's voice rising in greeting. Slowly, he got up and poked his head out of the window—seeing nothing, of course, as it opened out to a view of the backyard. He could guess who it was, though.

Murtagh sighed and glanced at himself in the mirror over the vanity table. He was a mess, nothing new there.

Well, it couldn't get much worse than it was, really. He twitched the covers over Thorn to hide him from view and headed downstairs. He made his way down the stairs quietly, ready to flee back to his room at the first sign of trouble.

"Murtagh!"

Inwardly, Murtagh groaned as Marian called him. So much for subletly—Marian was one of those people gifted with brass lungs and a voice that could float over a screaming mob and bring them all to order. Reluctantly, he entered the kitchen, where Marian was busy unloading grocery bags. Saphira was wrestling a bag of peas into the freezer, blowing him a kiss as he walked by. Murtagh grimaced, turning his attention to the mousy-haired boy who was putting cans of soup into the cupboard.

"Murtagh, dear," Marian said, smiling sunnily at Murtagh. "I don't believe you've met Eragon yet! Eragon, this is your cousin, Murtagh. He's going to be part of our family now."

Eragon smiled at him, wiping his hands on his shirt as he held a hand out for Murtagh to shake—so absurdly formal, it made Murtagh want to laugh. He studied the hand insolently, implying with every fiber of his being that it was beneath him to shake hands.

Eragon's smile wilted, and he dropped his hand to his side, looking awkward. "Well," he said slowly, carefully. "Guess not."

Marian gave Murtagh a reproving glare, but Murtagh could care less. He examined his cousin with narrowed eyes, comparing him critically to Supermodel Barbie Saphira. Twins they might be, but it looked like Eragon was still trapped in the awkward preteen years, while Saphira had stolen away the elegance of early adulthood.

Eragon blushed under his scrutiny, something that would be endearing on a girl, but just stupid on a guy. Murtagh thought about giving a contemptuous snort, but something about Eragon stopped him. Something told whatever scrap of decency he had left that it just _wouldn't be right. _Murtagh's stomach squirmed angrily at this sudden attack of conscience, and his scowl deepened.

It would be like kicking a puppy, really. And you didn't do that. You didn't hurt somebody who couldn't fight back.

He settled for giving a noncommittal grunt and turned away. "I'm going out," he announced to the silent kitchen. His ankle wasn't really up to a long jog or anything, but it was better than staying in the house with all the accusing stares that he was bound to get now. He made sure to slam the screen door as he left.

He soon discovered that the thing about grand exits was that you couldn't just nip back to pick up the things you forgot. There was a park three blocks away from the house, perfect for a clandestine smoke. If he had cigarettes. If he had a lighter.

Part of him itched to go shoplifting, but Murtagh stifled the urge. He'd never stolen without Thorn along for the ride—Thorn was his good-luck charm, sort of, even if he _was_ just a stupid stuffed animal.

He sat listlessly on a swing in the park, smirking as a mother with two kids quickly ushered her children away from him. The little kids were cute, in a Hallmark-card sort of way. Big chubby cheeks, wispy golden hair. The kind of kid that any mommy would adore, and the kind of kid that you'd keep away from the kind of kid that Murtagh was.

It was just another example of how damn _peachy_ this whole neighborhood was. Perfect suburbia—pretty kids, happy marriages, gorgeous homes that looked like they came straight out of a catalog. And where did he fit into this picture? Surely this place couldn't be spot-on 24/7; where did all their fucked-up kids go? Locked in the cellar, where no one ever saw them again? Thrown into special-ed classes, sent off to military camp, _what?_

He stood, unable to sit still any longer. _Screw_ this. Family, they said? What, they thought that it was some sort of fairy tale, the prodigal cousin come home, happily ever after? Obviously, Tornac hadn't filled them in on the fine print.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, officer, he won't do that again…"

"Well, sir, it appears that your son—"

"Nephew. Murtagh. His parents are dead; we've adopted him."

"Oh. Well, sir, that still doesn't change the fact that your _nephew_ tried to shoplift a cigarette lighter and a—" a rustle of pages— "certain items of women's lingerie."

There was a pause. "Oh."

"Look, now, ma'am, you say that he's your nephew? Murtagh Morzansson, is that correct? Are you aware that he has a record? Numerous counts of shoplifting, vandalism, a few minor drug charges—"

"Good Lord, Marian, that social worker never told us—"

"Garrow! Look, Officer, I know that it looks bad. But can't you let him off this one time? He just arrived today, he just needs time to adjust—"

"Marian, stealing a _thong_ is not adjusting. It's perversion."

"I think he's trying to tell us something, Garrow."

"What, that he's horny?"

"_Garrow!_"

"Sir, ma'am, I'm sorry. With a record like that, I'm afraid I can't just let him off on a warning—"

"Officer, please—"

"Marian…"

"Garrow, work with me! Officer, it won't happen again. I promise. Is the manager going to press charges? He can do community service, anything. Just don't haul him off to juvie court."

"Ma'am…"

"Officer. Please. Garrow, help me."

"Officer, I'll send him off to military boarding school if he doesn't cooperate."

"Garrow!"

"What? First day here and he's already tried to shoplift. What's next? He's going to slash our tires or something like that, you just wait, Marian. And with Saphira in the house—"

"Saphira hardly needs protection, you know that."

"She's fifteen!"

"She has a boyfriend, and I don't see you objecting to Shruikan."

"That's because Shruikan's a good kid. Straight-A's, good family—"

"Sir—"

"And Murtagh's not? May I remind you that he is your _sister's_ son, God rest her soul—"

"Selena was always too flighty, look at the ass she married—"

"Um, sir? Ma'am—"

"_Garrow!_ It's not good to speak ill of the dead—"

"I'm not; I'm just saying that maybe with Eragon and Saphira it's best that—"

"_SIR! MA'AM!"_

"What?!"

"Look, the manager has agreed not to press charges. This time. So get your kid—nephew—home and get his head straight. If he pulls a stunt like this again, he's definitely going to court, with a record like that."

"Thank you, Officer."

"I mean it about boot camp, Marian."

"Garrow…"

"No. If he ever tries this again, I'm sending him off. Okay, maybe Saphira can take care of herself, but Eragon? Have you ever thought about what might happen, if something happens and Murtagh's the only one in the house? I'm not risking that, Marian."

"But—"

"Let's get that kid and go home, Marian."

"He won't do that again. Just give him a chance."

"I already did, and he blew it. He's going to have to work hard to earn another one if he wants to stay here. And that's final, Marian."

* * *

Murtagh stared at the moon outside and tried not to think.

It hadn't been so bad—they hadn't hit him, anyway, which had led to some very interesting incidents in the past. Garrow just yelled a lot about military boarding school while Marian just sighed sadly, which, oddly enough, was a lot worse. Eragon had stared at him with huge round eyes at the realization that he was a Bad Kid and Saphira, well, Saphira had sat by and enjoyed the entire show.

But at least they knew now. Murtagh allowed himself a grim smile as he leaned back, banging his head gently against the wall. They knew what to expect. And so did Murtagh—the best way to judge character (and the usual duration of his stay at any particular home) was to watch their reactions as he did something flamboyant and so _obvious_ that the only option any sensible cop could have was to arrest him.

Somebody knocked on his door. Murtagh glanced at it, resigned. Probably Garrow, coming to yell at him again. He didn't bother to tell them to come in—one thing that Garrow had been so kind to reveal was that they had keys to the lock, effectively making the lock useless.

"Psst. Hey."

The door swung open a crack, Eragon's head poking in cautiously just in case Murtagh was standing behind the door with a chair or something, ready to brain the first person who entered. In fact, Eragon seemed surprised to see Murtagh seated on the floor by the window, staring listlessly at the moon.

"What do you want?" Murtagh said, glancing cursorily at him.

Eragon stared at him with round, dark eyes. Murtagh sighed and looked away. "Either talk or get out."

"Why'd you do it?" Eragon asked.

"Do what?" Murtagh said.

"Murtagh, nobody steals a thong unless they've got serious problems," Eragon said softly. "Unless they want to be noticed, or unless they're just plain stupid. So which is it? Which one are you?"

"I'm the kind that wants you to get the hell out," Murtagh said, but he didn't move.

"Saphira was right about you, you know," Eragon murmured.

"Well, forgive me if I don't care what Blondie has to say," Murtagh said in a bored drawl. "Speaking of which, you know that she probably smokes? You part of her game? The two of you huddle around in a room and share cigs, or what?" He smirked humorlessly. "I'm almost out, you know, care to share?"

Eragon tilted his head, studying him like an ornithologist would study an exotic bird. "She doesn't smoke," he said simply.

Murtagh shook his head tiredly. "Whatever." He sighed as Eragon continued to stand in the doorway. "What do you want?"

"You're no more messed up than the rest of us, you know," Eragon said quietly. "Don't think that you're alone."

Murtagh opened his mouth to retort and stopped. It was just something about the way Eragon said it, or maybe the way his eyes caught the moonlight, suddenly seeming much older than his years. Closing his mouth, Murtagh swallowed, feeling an odd thrill run down his spine.

"I'll remember that," he said gruffly. "Now fuck off."

Eragon left, closing the door behind him. Murtagh curled his knees up to his chest and propped his head on the windowsill, staring out at the still night and wrestling with the strange lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. His hand absently rubbed Thorn's ears, the dog pressed safely to his side.

A flash of movement caught his eye; Murtagh squinted and leaned forward for a better look. Mounds of bright hair, made silver in the moonlight—he almost laughed as he recognized who it was. Barbie Saphira, sneaking away for a midnight liason with—well, well, who was that?

Sharply chiseled features, dark hair that swept impressively into his eyes, a muscular build that suggested weightlifting and football and Mr. America competitions. A Prince Charming for Princess Blondie, was he? Murtagh whistled very softly under his breath, admiring the stranger. He was fully aware of his sexual orientation (after a very, ahem, _interesting_ incident when he was twelve) and despite his best efforts, was still completely human when it came to that particular aspect of life.

Charming wrapped his arms around Saphira and the two of them proceeded to suck each other's tonsils out in a way that, if Garrow knew (Murtagh was sure), would give him a heart attack. The two of them seemed to be at it forever, glued together in a way that suggested not just tongue, but hands sneaking where a fifteen-year-old definitely shouldn't be touched.

Murtagh gave a thin half-smile and moved away from the window. Beside him, Thorn grinned, his button eye suggesting a very good joke. "So," Murtagh breathed softly into his matted fur.

"So," Thorn agreed, smiling up at him. It was an expression so infectious that Murtagh just couldn't help but return the smile, pressing Thorn close to his chest.

He risked another peek out the window. The lovebirds had finally separated, Saphira running her tongue over undoubtedly swollen lips. His movement must have caught her eye—she turned slightly, bright eyes glinting through silver hair to stop right on him, her lips parting slightly.

Her boyfriend didn't seem to notice, looking away towards the street. Saphira squeezed his arm gently as Murtagh stared back at her, meeting her gaze squarely. She didn't seem unfazed or startled at being caught.

_Later_, she mouthed at him as her boyfriend put an arm around her and led her away, her lips curling up in a satisfied smile.

* * *

**Notes:**

**Surprisingly easy to write once I got past the usual gripes of writer's block and my Snupin obsession. Heh. xD**

**Review please! Thanks. :) And EraMur is coming, never fear!**


	2. A Study in Resignation

"What a long time life takes!" Clarice said at last. "Sometimes I hardly think it's worth encroaching on."—_Gormenghast_, Mervyn Peake

* * *

Well, it wasn't as if it were a _complete _surprise.

Murtagh stared glumly up at the yellow brick façade of the school building, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack as if for dear life. A few steps ahead of him, Marian was striding confidently up the stairs, Eragon just ahead of her. Why Saphira was allowed to ride a bicycle to school and Eragon was not was something that Murtagh had yet to figure out, but doing so was not high on his list of priorities at the moment.

The junior high was an ugly yellow building, absurdly out of place among the gorgeous suburbia greenery. Blocky black letters on the front of the building proclaimed _Roosevelt Junior High School_. It was just a stone's throw away from the senior high, which was creatively named _Roosevelt Senior High School_ and twice as ugly.

But _hell_. Even if it was a boarding school for rich brats, it still was a _school_. Murtagh's own personal hell on earth. School had been fucked up even when he was a kid, and it hadn't gotten better as he'd gotten older. Even before the Incident with Morzan, Murtagh had never been the kind of kid that teachers adored, the kind with Bright Futures and College Scholarships ahead of them. Constant moving didn't help—the longest he'd stayed in any school was one year when he was eight years old. After that, his education had been splintered into a thousand tiny shards—a few months at one school before his foster parents of the season kicked him out, and off he'd move to another district.

At sixteen, he would be repeating ninth grade for the second time. And (what a _wonderful_ coincidence, that) he would be in the same grade as Eragon and Saphira. Murtagh groaned a little, imagining the smile that would surely appear on Blondie's perfect lips upon hearing that her cousin was not only socially retarded, but an academic idiot to boot.

Hell. He could read and write, knew that the United States was sandwiched between Mexico and Canada, that George Washington was the very first president and the git chopped down a stupid cherry tree when he was six or something and never told a lie, blah blah blah. And so what? Honestly, who gave a shit?

"Murtagh!"

Murtagh stared sullenly at Marian as she beckoned him up the steps. Eragon had already disappeared through the doors; it was Murtagh's turn now. With a dull, martyred sigh he followed, grateful for Thorn's comforting presence in his backpack. He always brought Thorn to school, stowing him in his locker until the end of the day. Even with the threat of torturous teasing should Thorn be discovered, the presence of the doll made him feel safer, somehow.

It certainly looked like he needed the support, anyway. Marian seemed to know the secretary at the office, the two of them babbling away in high-pitched tones of voice Murtagh would normally reserve for talking to dogs. As far as he could tell, their conversation was mostly about Eragon—something about "remedial" and "special" and "individual."

Murtagh managed a thin smirk. It appeared that he wasn't the only one with a shitty academic record, and Eragon didn't even have a good excuse. Murtagh jammed his hands into his pockets and waited impatiently as the conversation wound up and down and around, boring him to death. "Marian," he said after about five minutes.

"Yes, dear?" Marian said, sandwiching the words neatly in between "oh, but that's no problem" and "Wait just one second, Mrs. Geller."

_I'm not your dear_, Murtagh thought automatically, but he didn't say it out loud. He settled for a surly, "What's going on?"

He saw Marian and the secretary exchange a Look. Murtagh had seen so many Looks like that in his life that he knew what it meant by heart—_oh no, what are we going to do about him…_ And all too soon that would become, _Hell, let's make him _someone else's_ problem instead…_

"You're Murtagh Morzansson, right?" Mrs. Geller said, her voice suddenly sharpening to a crisp alto. "In ninth grade?"

_No fuck, my school record is right there in front of you_. "Yeah."

"Ninth graders are required to take five courses: English, civics, science, mathematics, health and physical education. The rest are electives that you can choose—you have to pick at least two. That'll leave you five periods a week for study hall." Mrs. Geller stared intently at him over the black frames of her glasses; Murtagh returned the look darkly. "I'll print out a class schedule for you, but you'll need to choose your electives first."

"Do I _have_ to start today?" Murtagh grumbled. "I just came yesterday."

Mrs. Geller exchanged a look with Marian, who said hastily, "Well, dear, it's best to get you acclimatized as soon as possible." She hesitated. "If you don't feel well, though, I'm sure we can wait till next Monday…"

Murtagh weighed his options. As far as he knew, both Marian and Garrow had to work, which meant that he should have the house to himself. Then again, he didn't actually know anything—what if Garrow was, what did they call it, _self-employed?_ Murtagh would be avoiding the asshole and tiptoeing on eggshells all day.

He sighed. Might as well face the inevitable sooner rather than later.

"I'm fine," he said, turning the words into a surly growl.

Another Look. This one said, _Problem child—be careful! Do not touch!_ "All right, then," Mrs. Geller said briskly, sliding a list of classes across the counter. "Two of them. Go ahead."

Murtagh stared at the list. There were foreign languages, out for obvious reasons—he was getting murdered in plain old English already. There were computer classes, arts and humanities, drama and English…Murtagh ran his finger down the list of classes, wrinkling his nose at some of the names. He picked two of them at random—Stained Glass and Drawing/Cartooning. They sounded easy as hell; wasn't art all about free expression? So basically, whatever he drew would be Art, even if it was just a circle or something.

Armed with a ragged backpack, his class schedule and ten dollars for lunch money, Murtagh set out grimly to begin his school day. To his surprise, he managed to find and open his locker after only one try—it was a new one, too, shiny and smelling faintly of polish. He took it as a good sign that the day would not be entirely fucked up.

"You be careful," he whispered furtively to the hidden Thorn as he set his backpack carefully on the floor of the locker. "I'll be back soon, promise."

He closed the door carefully and sighed, banging his head gently against the polished metal. No use in putting it off any further, then.

* * *

To his disappointment, he was only slightly late for first period—English. The teacher was a woman who looked about forty, slightly plump, with frizzy red hair that stuck out in all directions. "Mr. Morzansson," she said in a surprisingly deep voice.

"Uh," Murtagh muttered.

"Take a seat. You have your books?"

Murtagh shook his head and glumly accepted the books she handed him _(Carl-Menson Vocabulary: Intermediate Stage, The Canterbury Tales_ and _The Basics of English_), weighing them in his arms. They were quite hefty, a testimony to the spirit of academia—if the book is thick, then it must be _really_ good. Not to mention really backbreaking for the poor sods who had to lug them around all day. He slouched his way to the back row and sat down. His fellow back-row inmates looked at him with dully sympathetic expressions, mirroring his feelings perfectly: _welcome to hell_.

It was only the second week of the second semester, but Murtagh was shocked to find how quickly Mrs. Dunbar—the English teacher—zipped through the book. He paged through the book rebelliously, wondering why they were going so fast. Hell, this was Remedial English, not Advanced! A report, two pages single-spaced, to be turned in on Monday? What the _fuck, _spelling tests and comprehension worksheets every week? And wasn't Canterbury a kind of chocolate?

That was first period, and the rest of the morning wasn't much better. To his shock and horror, Drawing/Cartooning was not an easy pass; the teacher, Mr. Vinton, worshipped at the foot of Art and did not permit vandals like Murtagh to draw smiley faces all over the sacred altar. No, cartooning was not the simple gimmick amateurs thought it to be; it was a dedication, a legacy, a skill that took several universes to perfect—

His third period was study hall, giving him a chance to sit down and have a good sulk. After weighing his options, he decided to head to the library—a safe haven, at least from his childhood memories. He managed to locate the library after a few false turns, whence he came upon a most unpleasant surprise—Saphira, lounging casually on one of the comfy library sofas. She was chatting with a tall Asian girl who looked every bit as gorgeous as she was—waist-length black hair, huge emerald eyes, a curvy figure and inherent sexiness. No doubt her name was Raven and the head of the cheerleading team (with Blondie as co-captain, of course). Murtagh looked determinedly past them, searching for a place to hide.

"Saphira!"

Murtagh slid to one side as the boyfriend from the night before swaggered confidently into the library, earning dirty looks from the librarian and library aides. Saphira gave a very loud squeal when she saw him. As Mr. America sat down on the sofa, the two of them proceeded to engage in a nauseating bout of tonsil-sucking that beat even last night's display. Raven examined her nails, looking utterly bored.

"Shruikan," Saphira said breathlessly when they parted for air, "Are we still on for tonight?"

"Sure," Shruikan said, sprawling lazily on the couch. "You'll want to meet Galbatorix, believe me. He's driving his convertible all the way from the big city."

"Your cousin better be as hot as you claim, or I'll kill you for wasting my time," Raven murmured.

Shruikan gave an expansive shrug. "Hey, I don't swing that way. But hell knows that the ladies drool after him all the time at the college." He punched Raven on the shoulder. "Lighten up, Arya."

"Hey, you said that other guy, whatshisname, would be hot," Raven—Arya—pouted. "Turns out that he was some ugly skank who was just out for a couple cheap thrills. How do I know you're not lying again?"

Murtagh peered out from behind a bookshelf, noting with interest the spark of jealousy in Saphira's eyes as Shruikan leaned close to whisper in Arya's ear. He didn't quite catch what Shruikan said, but whatever it was set Arya off into convulsions of laughter.

"Miss Drottingnu!"

A librarian, evidently fed up with the noise, strode over to berate the three of them about the lack of respect in regards to the library, the Right Thing for the Right Time, and the disgraceful state of adolescence in general. Saphira and Arya looked the very picture of innocence, while Shruikan turned on charm that sent a soft but insistent twinge into Murtagh's lower body. "Well, I'm so sorry, ma'am," Shruikan said, honey dripping from his every word. "We didn't mean to be so loud."

His voice was a low drawl that could lure birds from their nests. The librarian, a healthy, robust woman who looked about thirty, was no match for it, crumbling in the face of sheer charisma. "All right, but keep it down," she said after a dazed moment.

Murtagh spent the rest of the period skulking behind the bookshelves as Arya, Saphira and Shruikan continued to talk in loud voices, enumerating their (undoubtedly many) conquests and Fascinating Cousin Galbatorix. From what Murtagh could hear (or indeed, the entire library), Galbatorix was Shruikan's older cousin, already a junior in a nearby college. He was, a) sexy, b) rich, c) cool, and d) the greatest thing the world had seen since the invention of sliced cheese.

He was grateful when the bell finally rang to sound the end of the class. Murtagh waited until the trio (still chatting loudly) had exited the library before he skulked out, checking his class schedule along the way. 201, Mr. Duffee. Algebra.

Math. His favorite damn subject in the whole world—_not!_

Mr. Duffee, his math teacher, was a soft-spoken man with short-cropped hair and glasses. He greeted Murtagh with a nod, directing him to a seat in the front of the class, piling him with yet another tome of knowledge that made Murtagh's spine shiver in dread. "Algebra," Murtagh muttered under his breath as he paged through the textbook.

Slope. Exponents. Quadratics. Factoring, radicals, rational functions…who gave a shit about this stuff, honestly? Except for math nerds who had nothing to do with their pathetic lives. Could it get any worse—

"Ah, Eragon."

Oh, _fuck_.

Murtagh turned around with a growing sense of dread. Sure enough, it was Eragon framed in the doorway, walking in with a big smile on his face. Eragon Palancar, his nitwit cousin—lesser of two evils, sure, but still one of the last people he wanted to see. "Hi, Mr. Duffee," Eragon said, sliding into the seat next to Murtagh and bending his head to pull down his book even as Murtagh stared at him hostilely. "I didn't get problem nine—oh, hi, Murtagh."

Eragon smiled at him, though it wavered under Murtagh's glare. "Hi," Eragon repeated, sounding much more uncertain. When Murtagh's flat stare failed to cease, Eragon quickly averted his eyes. "Um," he said, as a cold silence followed.

"You two know each other, Eragon?" Mr. Duffee inquired, an uncapped whiteboard marker held gracefully between two fingers.

"Yeah," Eragon said slowly. "Cousins. We're, um, cousins. He's from out of town."

"Ah, Mr. Morzansson—Murtagh, is it?" Mr. Duffee said, checking the attendance list on his desk. "Will you be staying long here in Carvahall, then?"

Murtagh shrugged. As Mr. Duffee continued to watch him steadily, waiting for an answer, Murtagh said grudgingly, "Don't know."

"Well, we'll have to make the most of what time we have, then. Class, settle down," he said as the bell rang, raising his voice to the rest of the students. "I trust you all did the assigned problems, yes, that includes you, Jason. Let's test your knowledge with a little pop quiz…"

The class released a unanimous groan. Mr. Duffee soldiered on heroically and handed out the quiz sheets; Murtagh took his with a dull sense of dread. Quadratics. It might as well be ancient Egyptian, really. He turned his pencil over and over in his fingers, finally making up some complete illogical bullshit, basically reinventing Algebra from scratch. When he turned his paper in, it was with a derogatory sense of accomplishment at having filled the entire test sheet with writing, even if it was just with random scribbles.

He studiously ignored Eragon for the rest of the period and fled as soon as the bell rang. Lunch was not an inviting prospect—for some reason, he wasn't really that hungry. Anyway, he didn't relish having any more opportunities to bump into his darling cousins (especially Saphira and her little entourage).

It was risky, but he took his backpack out from his locker, opening the zipper just enough so that he could rub Thorn's head. Just touching the threadbare ears made him feel better, letting the tension that had been filling him all day drain out slowly.

"Four down, four to go," he whispered softly.

"And the rest of the second semester, don't forget," Thorn said back, nuzzling his cheek.

"Fuck, don't remind me," Murtagh grumbled. He rezipped his backpack and swung it onto his shoulder, kicking his locker closed. "Let's look for somewhere quiet."

"Don't you want to have lunch?" Thorn asked, his nose pressing against Murtagh's back.

"Not hungry," Murtagh shrugged. "Besides, I might as well save the ten bucks Marian gave me just in case of emergencies, you know?"

Thorn didn't answer, because he did know. With some foster parents, you just had to be ready to flee at a moment's notice—even if it was just to the local park. A kid had to have some space; otherwise he'd go nuts and end up shooting people or something. And despite his cynical view that the world might be better off for a couple hydrogen bombs (or maybe just a shotgun), Murtagh wasn't about to go about dusting people personally.

Well. Not yet. Murtagh snorted, jamming his hands into his pockets. Maybe in two years at eighteen, when he was all nice and shiny and officially Independent, he'd think about it.

Roosevelt Junior High School did not have a yard where he could catch a discreet smoke. After a bit of deliberation, Murtagh went back to the library, first checking to make sure that Blondie and her cohorts were not inside. Thankfully, the library was almost deserted, with a lone librarian stacking books on a shelf.

Murtagh settled at the most distant table he could find, placing his backpack carefully on his lap. Slowly, he unzipped the top just a tiny bit, letting Thorn's nose peek out. With a sigh, Murtagh rested his head on the table, letting Thorn press against his chest.

"What do you have this afternoon?" Thorn whispered.

"Physical Science, Stained Glass, Civics and Gym," Murtagh whispered back. He groaned, thumping his forehead against his arms. "I hate gym."

"It's the team sports that get you."

Murtagh grunted in agreement. He was a pretty good distance runner, probably a product of all the times he'd run away from whatever foster home would have him. He was a fair hand at tennis, harboring a triumphant memory at having smacked a ball straight into some sneering asshole's braces—that had been _fun_. But when it came to team sports like baseball or basketball, he was simply abysmal.

"Maybe the teacher will let me get away with ditching," Murtagh muttered, though not very hopefully. He _had_ managed to ditch almost an entire semester when he was fourteen. The gym teacher, an old man who looked ready to either retire or just keel over at any moment, hadn't bothered with things like roll call. But the odds of that happening again were about nil.

"Or you could really make an effort," Thorn suggested mildly in a voice that sounded almost like reproach. Murtagh didn't bother to reply to such a stupid comment as he let his head drop onto the table again, waiting for the bell to catapult him back into hell.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a sullen, bored crawl. Possibly the only memorable incident was the fact that he got hit in the face with a basketball; Murtagh was sure that he would be known as The-Idiot-Who-Stood-Right-Under-The-Hoop-and-Got-What-He-Deserved for the rest of his school career.

Well, at the rate this was going, his school career at good ol' Roosevelt probably wouldn't last for very long, anyway.

Marian and Eragon were waiting for him by the time he managed to grab his bag and trudge to the front door. "Murtagh!" Marian called out, waving her arms to get his attention. "We're over here!" Murtagh gave a perfunctory wave in acknowledgement and slouched his way over. At the car, he received a rather unpleasant surprise—Saphira and her best buddy Arya were already in the backseat, chatting to each other avidly. Something about hair dye or whatever.

"Murtagh, sit in the front," Marian ordered as she turned on the ignition. "Girls, buckle up back there. You too, Eragon."

"What about your bike?" Eragon asked Saphira quietly.

"Shruikan's riding it," Blondie explained as Arya let loose a peal of laughter. "We drew straws and he lost."

"Sweetheart, I want you to call me once you get to Shruikan's house, okay?" Marian said, looking at her daughter in the rearview mirror. "And remember—your bedtime's at eleven-thirty. I know tomorrow's the weekend, but you have to go to bed on time—"

"Moooom!" Saphira interrupted, making a face so exquisite that would've made Da Vinci bite his paintbrush in two.

"All right, all right, I'll stop embarrassing you in front of your friend," Marian laughed. "But remember to call me. Or better yet, I'll call you. His parents will be home, right?"

"Yes, _Mom_," Saphira sighed.

"Okay then. And Eragon, what time is Nasuada coming over?"

"Six," Eragon said, looking up. "Six till eight."

"No problem. What does she think about lasagna, then? You ever asked her, sweetie?"

"She likes cheese, I guess," Eragon offered awkwardly.

"Cheese it is." Marian seemed to relax once her children's various affairs had been settled, focusing on the business of driving. Murtagh crossed his arms and stared out the window, watching the scenery fly by.

"So, Murtagh, how was school?"

Eragon's voice startled him. Murtagh glanced at him, forgetting to be hostile for just a moment. "Um—fine," he said. "Boring. Mostly." He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "And why do you care?"

"Murtagh!" Marian said reprovingly.

"Just asking," Eragon said quietly, ducking his head. Murtagh felt an odd tendril of guilt twist his stomach for just a moment before he dismissed it, refocusing on the passing greenery.

Saphira and Arya continued to talk, talk, talk, and _talk_ for the rest of the trip back—Murtagh jumped out of the car as soon as Marian parked it, his head aching from repressing a frustrated scream. Honestly, were all girls _that_ vapid? Shruikan this, Galbatorix that—_ooh, I hope he's hot, I like long hair on guys, I should repaint my nails, should I curl my hair tonight_—ugh!

Marian opened the door, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter. Saphira and Arya (still comparing different brands of eyeshadow) sprawled all over the living room couch, while Eragon busied himself with a bag of carrot sticks. Murtagh fled to his room, slamming the door behind him. Maybe he could just miraculously die here or something. Then he wouldn't have to deal with this wonderful, brilliant, homey home home family of his ever again.

"God, I hate my life," Murtagh groaned, tossing his bag onto the bed and flopping down after it.

"Hey, I thought Saphira had some valid points about the oil content of eyeshadow," Thorn said, sounding amused. "Your skin can't breathe through all that—"

"Oh, not you too," Murtagh muttered, burying his head in the pillow.

"Hey, now," Thorn chided softly. "You survived it, didn't you? Your first day at school. Nobody targeted you as the New Kid, you got by. You survived. And that's what it's all about, surviving one day at a time. It could have been a lot worse."

"Yes, Dr. Phil," Murtagh said sarcastically. He sighed, rolling over to flop one limp hand onto his backpack.

Well. Yeah. It could've been a _lot_ worse, now that he came to think about it.

"Well, maybe," he said at last, reluctantly. "But if I hear about Galbatorix one more time I think I'll just scream, Thorn, honestly."

"Hey, he's the Hot College Cousin," Thorn laughed.

"And then there's Blondie and Raven and Shruikan, the dream team, homecoming royal couples, cheerleading captains and football heroes to boot," Murtagh added. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. "It's like they waltzed out of a book, Thorn. A goddamn fairy tale."

"Hey now. Haven't you noticed something about fairy tales? It's always the third sister, the humble goose girl, the poor swineherd that saves the day." Thorn stuck his head out from the backpack, his one button eye smiling at Murtagh. "So I wouldn't put too much stock in the princess, really."

"Gee, thanks, so I'm the swineherd?"

"Waiting by to save the day," Thorn agreed softly, nudging Murtagh's palm with his nose.

Murtagh obliged, stroking the threadbare ears with slow, lazy movements. He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand and staring fixedly at the pattern of stars in the ceiling. Thorn wiggled closer, and Murtagh pulled him up to his chest, taking comfort from his presence.

* * *

He wasn't aware of falling asleep, but the next thing he was aware of was Marian's knock on the door and the darkness outside the window. "Murtagh. Murtagh!"

Murtagh shoved Thorn under the blankets just as Marian came in. "There you are," she said, sounding relieved. "Did you fall asleep, dear? It's been a long day, I know."

Murtagh rubbed his nose. "Time?" he muttered, figuring he could skip a few words to get the point across.

"Almost six. I called you from downstairs but you didn't answer, so I came up to check. Do you want to take a shower and head back to sleep, or go down and have dinner?"

"Dinner?" Murtagh murmured..

"Yes, dear. Lasagna. Eragon's friend Nasuada is over; you should meet her."

"Nnngh."

"Are you hungry, dear?"

"Uh. Yes."

"Then come on down. Brush your hair first," Marian directed, and then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Murtagh rubbed his eyes with his hands and groaned under his breath. "Fuck," he said to no one in particular, glancing at the heap of blankets that covered Thorn. That had been close. He'd have to be more careful next time.

He sat up and looked over to the mirror, finger-combing his hair into some semblance of order until it no longer looked like he'd cut it with a lawnmower. He eyed himself critically, noting that even with his hair smoothed down, he still looked like a train wreck.

Well, _fuck_. He was hardly going to enter a beauty contest anytime soon—besides, it was just dinner. With a complete stranger. And his supposed 'family' who might as well be strangers, for all Murtagh knew.

He sighed and banished the dark thoughts from his mind, at least for now. _Okay, Murtagh_, he thought to himself, revving himself up. _Get through this and you can rest._

With that attitude in mind, he marched downstairs as if about to face his execution. To his mild surprise amd relief, the big dining room table had only four people seated around it—Garrow, Marian, Eragon, and Nasuada, who was an African-American girl with wavy brown hair that was cropped short around her ears, like a helmet. Saphira and Arya must have gone off to Shruikan's house then, thank God. Murtagh slid into a seat next to Eragon, studiously avoiding his cousin.

"Saphira and Arya are at Shruikan's house," Marian explained as she handed him a generous helping of lasagna. Completely involuntarily, Murtagh's mouth watered as he stared down at his plate. Cheesy lasagna, tomato sauce. To a kid who'd been surviving on snack packs and candy bars for the past couple weeks, it smelled like heaven.

Murtagh waited until everybody else had started eating before he picked up his fork. Garrow started the conversation—he apparently owned a little hardware shop in the middle of the town and spent twenty minutes telling a sidesplitting story involving a toilet seat and a nail gun. Mentally, Murtagh awarded Marian the Oscar for Best Fake Laugh as the story drew to an epic conclusion.

Eragon and Nasuada started up their own conversation, leaving Murtagh free to wolf down the food. Once his plate was empty, he stood and dumped his plates in the sink, leaving the table as fast as he could. Marian opened her mouth when he reentered the living room to head up the stairs, but he ran up the stairs and slammed the door before she could say anything.

He retrieved his cigarettes from their hiding place under the bed and glanced out the window. One good thing about stealing thongs was that nobody looked very hard for the other stuff you stole. The cop had found one lighter, but the other two were safely in his possession. "All right, Thorn," he murmured under his breath. "Ready to go?"

Maybe Thorn would've given him yet another lecture on How Cigarettes Were Bad For Your Health (now with color pictures from Health class!) but Murtagh didn't give him a chance as he stuffed Thorn into his backpack and swung it onto his shoulder. He reknotted his rope from the night before and let himself out the window, this time careful not to twist his ankle. Thorn poked his nose out of the backpack as soon as they were safely on the ground, sniffing the crisp evening air.

"Yeah, yeah, stuff it," Murtagh muttered before Thorn could say a word.

"I wasn't about to say anything," Thorn said primly. "Only that somebody's going to see that rope. It's kind of obvious, you know."

"I look like I give a shit?" Murtagh snapped, but the truth was, he _did_ give a shit. Having a great white rope made out of bedsheets hanging out your window was a dead giveaway that something was wrong. He sighed, wishing that he'd planned it out better. Now he'd have to go and knock on the door, or else find a way to climb right back up…

There was a blur of color at the window, and Murtagh tensed. He ducked behind the nearest tree, his heart pounding frantically in his ears. Not because he was afraid of getting caught, because he wasn't. He always knew this whole Happy Family thing couldn't last long anyway. No, it was…it was something else that made his palms all sweaty, his heart beat at what felt like a million times per minute. Something—well, just something, wasn't that enough?

He stayed hunched in the shadow of thre tree for a long moment, but the movement didn't happen again. Murtagh breathed a small sigh of relief and slid down against the tree, his hand fumbling into his backpack for Thorn's support.

"God," he whispered as the comforting roughness of Thorn's ears brushed his skin. "Now I just have to—"

"Have to what?"

Murtagh spun around, muffling a yelp. Eragon stood a few feet away from him, his slender figure emerging from the darkening shadows. "None of your business," Murtagh snapped.

"If you wanted to go out, you could just ask Mom and Dad," Eragon said softly. "No need to jump out of a window or anything."

"That was you? Up in my room?"

Eragon nodded.

"What the hell were you doing up there?"

Eragon flushed, suddenly looking awkward. "Nothing," he mumbled after a long moment. "I just…I just thought you might like some company. That's all. Long day of school and all that."

Murtagh studied him for a long moment—Eragon's slightly defensive pose, his hands twisting around each other, the faint blush in his cheeks. "Why are you doing this?" he said at last, sticking his hands into his pockets.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to be nice. Asking about my day. And don't think I've forgotten about yesterday—your little surprise visit and everything. What are you trying to do? What do you want?"

If possible, Eragon turned an even deeper red—on his tiredly pale complexion, it actually made him look healthier than usual. "I just thought I should get to know you," Eragon said after a moment. "I mean, we're cousins."

"Your parents didn't give a shit about me for ten years," Murtagh said, letting some of the anger he'd harbored for so long seep into his voice. "Garrow may have been my uncle, my mother's _sister_, but I sure don't remember him dropping by whenever Morzan beat the crap out of her. Or when Morzan drank away whatever money Mom managed to earn in her part-time job as a fucking_ waitress_, and the two of us lived off of whatever we could find in the trash. After Morzan beat Mom to death, I was in the hospital for two fucking weeks, and your half-assed parents didn't drop by even once. For god's sake, they weren't even at the funeral—his sister, your aunt, her sister-in-law! So don't talk pretty shit to me about being cousins, because as far as I'm concerned, blood doesn't count for anything. So just—just—"

He stopped, breathing hard. Eragon stared at him with huge doe-eyes, his mouth slightly open. Murtagh gritted his teeth and turned away, slamming his hand against the rough bark of the tree. He shouldn't have said that. He so should _not_ have said that. Even if he did—even if Marian had—Garrow had—

_It was none of their business_. He didn't want their pity, because that was just a step away from condescension. Once it started, it was going to morph into, "Awww, does bwaby want a widdle hanky to cwy on?" and that, _that_ Murtagh could not take. Hate he could handle. Disgust, contempt, fine. But the nauseating, gooey, oh-so-false words that were going to spout out of Eragon's mouth, no, no, _no!_

"I'm—"

"Don't say you're sorry," Murtagh snapped. "Everybody says that, and it never means anything, so just shut up. Shut up. _Shut up!_"

He shouted the last two words, as if they could erase everything he'd just said. Eragon flinched and took a step back, bumping into the shadow behind him.

Nasuada.

Chills swept up Murtagh's body, followed by the hot rage of shame. What the _fuck_ was she doing here? It was bad enough that Eragon had heard his outburst, but Nasuada—a girl that he didn't know, had no idea who she was, an utter, complete, total stranger—

He wanted to die. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole, for the tree's roots to swarm over him and just make him disappear. The one time, the _one time_ he'd lost control like this and spilled his stupid sob story, the whole world just had to be standing by to hear his performance.

"Goddamn you," he spat at Eragon, hate and humiliation twisting his stomach. "You just had to bring an audience along, didn't you?"

"I—" Eragon began helplessly. Murtagh clenched his fists, wanting so badly to hit something, anything. The logical part of his mind knew that it _wasn't_ Eragon's fault that Nasuada was there, that his cousin had been just as surprised to see her here as he was. But the fury inside him overruled that voice, screaming for him to beat the living shit out of Eragon Palancar, the sanctimonious, holier-than-thou snot who had the gall to be _sorry_.

"You didn't know my mother," Murtagh said, his voice shaking. "And you don't know me. And I don't want to know you or your perfect sister or your perfect family. So just leave me alone. Just—"

He clenched his teeth and looked away. Wasn't it just a night for true confessions? Too bad he left the tissues in the bathroom…

"Just leave me alone," he concluded finally. He forced his voice to be calm, to tamp down the sick hatred roiling inside of him, fighting to get out. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his entire life, and Murtagh was proud of how normal his voice sounded.

Eragon didn't move, and neither did Nasuada. Both of them were looking at him like he was a rabid dog that had just gotten away from its cage, like they expected him to attack them any second. Watching their expressions, Murtagh felt the hate drain away, leaving nothing but an unspeakable weariness in its place.

Look at this place. Look at this perfect house, this perfect family, these perfect friends. The worst thing that Eragon would ever face would be a D on his math test. For Saphira, a chipped nail would probably be enough to constitute the end of the world. They didn't know about digging in the trash for food, about learning how to steal just so they could eat, about defending themselves and being constantly on the guard against those who thought those in the System were their own damn playtoys.

Murtagh walked away, and they didn't bother to stop him. Although honestly, Murtagh wouldn't have stopped them had they tried. He was just so tired of it all, life and all its accompanying bullshit.

"Better start packing, Thorn," he whispered softly as he slid his backpack into his arms. No doubt Eragon would run back to Mommy and Daddy with some horrible sob story about how mean Murtagh was, and out Murtagh would go. Bad doggy, go back to the pound.

He hugged Thorn close, resting his nose against Thorn's head. The red dog didn't say anything, just hugged Murtagh back, soothing the pain that Murtagh refused to admit was there.

* * *

It was late when he started to head back—late, late, very late. Murtagh didn't have a watch, but the streets were empty and silent, the streetlamps casting eerie glows on the sidewalks.

And to make matters even better, he was lost.

Every house looked the same, and he didn't really remember what Marian and Garrow's house looked like anyway. He could hardly go knocking on every house and asking if the Palancars lived there…and even if he didn't find the house, how was he supposed to get back in? Even if Eragon hadn't tattled, Marian was sure to have discovered his disappearance.

Thank God he had Marian's ten dollars from earlier that day and a nice dinner of lasagna. It meant that he wasn't _totally_ desperate, at least not yet. He'd lived on the streets before. It wouldn't kill him to spend a night outside, or even a few days if he had to.

He headed away from the main cluster of houses. There was a nice cluster of trees that made up some rich guy's backyard, and Murtagh settled himself down against a tree, sliding his backpack under his head for a pillow. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to a long night.

Maybe it was because he'd already slept earlier that day, but his thoughts just wouldn't settle down. Murtagh squirmed and changed position, rolling onto his side. Thorn made a soft squeak of protest as Murtagh squished him, which Murtagh shushed into silence. He stared blankly out into the trees, sighing a little. Great night to have insomnia, too. He was no tree or plant expert, but maybe it was the smell that was keeping him up, because they gave out some kind of weird odor—

Murtagh sneezed.

Okay, no way in _hell_ was that smell coming from a tree. Not unless trees glowed red and gave off smoke…and smoke, Murtagh realized, was the odor he was smelling. Sharp and pungent and quite eye-watering, and wasn't he lucky that the wind was blowing it right towards him.

He sat up and scooped up his backpack. There were voices from the direction of the glow—some kind of fire. But who the hell would be holding a little outdoors BBQ in the middle of the night?

A tinkly laugh sounded in the air—it was quickly shushed, but Murtagh tensed. It sounded like Arya, that absurdly hyper pal of Saphira's. Weren't they supposed to be at Shruikan's house, though, meeting that _awesomeamazingfabulous_ Galbatorix? Or had the guy ditched them or what? Did that mean Shruikan's house was somewhere nearby?

He edged in for a better look, trying not to make any noise. His feet, however, were not so considerate and stepped on a branch, snapping it was a clear, crisp _crack_. Murtagh froze in place, as the hum of voices abruptly stopped.

Murtagh took a deep breath. It wasn't like he had anything to lose—he would probably be thrown out tomorrow, so whatever happened tonight wasn't going to be a huge loss. He stepped out of the cover of shadows into the halo of light, examining the people around the flames with the same intensity they were scrutinizing him.

Indeed, he'd been right—there was Arya, that of the tinkly little laugh. Also Shruikan and Saphira, the latter raising a perfect eyebrow in a decidedly annoyed way. Then there was a man who was probably the promised Galbatorix—maybe not as good as sliced cheese, but pretty close. Shruikan hadn't been exaggerating about his cousin's charms.

"Murtagh." Saphira was the first to speak, her sultry voice a startled, but no less sexy, purr. "What brings you out here?"

"Murtagh?" Shruikan said lazily, running his fingers through her hair.

"My cousin," Saphira said, waving a hand dismissively. "Well?" she asked, looking back at Murtagh.

Murtagh shrugged. "Got locked out."

This produced a small round of laughter around the circle. Saphira motioned him closer with one graceful hand. "Another little sojourn out the window?" she inquired.

Murtagh gave a shrug. Tired of all the staring eyes, he pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, figuring it was as good an icebreaker as any. "Want one?"

Saphira evidently hadn't been lying yesterday—she didn't take a cigarette, but Galbatorix did. This seemed to signal that Murtagh had passed some sort of test—the older man gestured to Murtagh to sit down. "So," Galbatorix said, taking a deep drag, "You coming tonight?"

"Galbatorix!" Shruikan said sharply.

"Join you in what?" Murtagh asked.

"Nothing," Saphira said, sounding exasperated. She eyed him for a long moment, then shook her head, sending silky tresses cascading down her neck, the blond locks contrasting vividly with her black tank top. "No offense, cousin, but I don't want you in on this."

Murtagh shrugged, exhaling smoke rings. "Suit yourself. I don't care about your 'this,' anyway."

Saphira raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here?"

"Told you," Murtagh said, holding his cigarette loosely between two fingers. "Got locked out."

Saphira gave a small snort of amusement. "All right." She was quiet for a long moment. "The downstairs window doesn't lock right. You thump it on the right top corner, it swings right open." She gave him a hard look. "Now get lost."

"Saphira," Arya said, rolling onto her side, but her voice was amused.

"Thanks," Murtagh said indifferently. He had no wish to get involved in their little circle of ultra-perfect-dom or whatever they were planning that night, considering that his eviction date was tomorrow. He got up, throwing his cigarette onto their little campfire.

"Maybe another time," Shruikan suggested, giving him a suggestive look. Saphira elbowed him in the ribs, and he laughed, leaning over to give her a kiss.

It was Galbatorix's look that made Murtagh more uneasy, despite Shruikan's jibe—the older man had an unmistakable aura about him, commanding and arrogant and definitely used to getting what he wanted. Even though Galbatorix didn't say a word, Murtagh could feel the heat of his gaze as he walked away from the fire.

Murtagh shook it off, giving a small snort. Someone like Galbatorix could get anyone he wanted, and Murtagh was glad to let Galbatorix get them. He didn't need the hassle of sex right now, on top of everything else.

Two days. This _had_ to be a new record.

* * *

**-looks at number of story alerts-**

**Wow. I don't think I've ever had that many in a single week. Two. Whatever. O.o; Well, hope you enjoyed the chapter. And review! :)**

**And yes, this is a modern-day AU to **_**Child, Child**_**. Kudos to those who picked up on that! XD**

**Bouncingpurple: **Ha, the thing is, if Murtagh –did- go to boot camp my protagonist will have gone poof! I'll have nothing to write about. XD

**.Insanity.x**: I know, Saphira's just perfect as a blond, isn't she? oooh la la. Maybe she'll dye it auburn once this story gets rolling. You know, just for something new.

**Princess Fairy**: Thanks. Hope you liked this chapter!

**Obsidian Thunder**: Well, you know, Murtagh's had a crap life, he's not going to be Mr. Sunshine after all that. I really do hate what CP did to him in _Brisingr_, and I'm still griping about the black hair thing. I prefer my _Eragon_ Murtagh. –cuddles-

**Mistress of Misery**: Yeah, I like Saphira a lot. She's a bit OOC now (well, for AU characterization, anyway) but soon something Big will happen that will make her return to the Light (or is it Bright?) Side and stop hanging out with that nasty Shruikan. XD Arya, too. Oooh. Spooky!


	3. UST

"Most decisions are seat-of-the-pants judgments. You can create a rationale for anything."—Nathan Myhrvold

* * *

Murtagh didn't believe in God. Few foster parents bothered to drag their adoptees to church and the bits and pieces of religious dogma he'd picked up over the years did not sound very encouraging. Fate, karma, none of that made a dent in his armor of cynicism. He didn't believe in luck either, or at least not in good luck.

Which was why it was so surprising that he wasn't caught the night before. He banged the window at least ten times before it finally cracked open a tiny gap, and he'd spent about ten minutes huffing and puffing before he finally opened a hole large enough to wiggle through. Honestly, how did Blondie manage such a thing without breaking her delicate manicured nails? And then after that he hadn't been exactly quiet, either, dropping with a heavy thud and knocking a chair over as he wriggled in.

Nobody had come rushing into the living room with a baseball bat, but Murtagh had hardly expected his luck to hold. But hold it had—after a night tossing and turning and imagining the look on Tornac's face (not to mention that exasperating sigh of _oh, Murtagh, not _again!), Marian's friendly "Good morning!" had been enough to scare the holy bejesus out of him.

"Ngh." There was an awkward silence until he remembered to close his mouth. "Morning."

"Early riser, huh?" Marian said, smiling at him nonetheless. "Eragon is still asleep; he likes to snooze till noon on weekends, and well, I haven't the heart to stop him. Saphira is still at Shruikan's house; Garrow headed off to the store. Pancakes?"

"Yeah," Murtagh said after a little moment. Still beaming like a lunatic at the Oscars, Marian slid a plate of pancakes in front of him, along with a bottle of maple syrup. Murtagh stared warily at the bottle for a long moment.

It was just a maple syrup bottle. Why was he so freaked out?

_Because I thought I'd be tossed out on my ass, not offered breakfast_.

Hah, yeah. There was that. It was like he was expecting Garrow to come rushing out with a chainsaw and lop his head off any second. What, so evidently baby Eragon had kept his mouth shut last night. Thank God—or whoever—for small blessings. But seriously—what fate had he managed to please last night? No way was this going to hold.

"Newspaper?" Marian suggested, breaking into his pessimistic contemplation. "Your uncle Garrow's always the first to the paper, and he never folds it up properly." She sighed, the good-natured sigh of a wife tolerating her unruly husband.

Murtagh resisted the urge to stare at her and settled for a nod. Setting the maple syrup to one side and grabbing his fork, he pulled the paper closer with his free hand. Not that he was particularly interested in the latest gossip of Carvahall, USA, but it gave him an excuse to ignore her. Marian obviously wasn't going to shut up anytime soon on her own.

He read the comics first, of course, making a face at the stupid jokes and some stupid political picture of the president. Ha ha, very funny. After that, he flipped aimlessly through the paper until he found an interesting 'Dear Kathryn' column—a rip-off of Dear Abby, perhaps? Could you sue for that kind of thing? After all, weren't lawyers suing for stupid things like spilled McDonalds drinks these days?

_Dear Kathryn:_

_I'm a twenty year old and in love with a guy two years older than I am. Problem with that is I'm also a guy. My parents have voiced strong objections against homosexuals in the past and I don't know how I'm going to tell them the truth. ADAM and I have been best friends since we were twelve and I know that he's the love of my life. But I'm afraid to tell my parents that I'm gay because I know they'll hate me. What should I do?_

_Scared to Tell_

Murtagh snorted as he quickly skimmed Dear Kathryn's response. It was boring shit—if you are sure of yourself, then it's up your parents to accept you, here's a support number for gays if they happen to chuck you out, have a nice life, blah blah blah. Gee, thanks. Obviously, there was _no way in hell_ that STT could have figured _that_ out for himself, oh no.

He smiled a little humorlessly, shaking his head. Yeah, he'd be _perfect_ for a 'Dear Murtagh' column. To Mr. STT_: Yeah, you're gay. Get over it. If your parents hate you, tell them to fuck off. You don't need them anyway; you're eighteen, for God's sake! Suck it up and screw ADAM to your heart's content. Who gives a shit about your folks?_

…which come to think of it, it was basically the same advice Dear Kathryn gave. Except for the fact that his answer didn't come with pink ponies and rainbow sparkles.

He shook his head and continued his aimless flipping. It was kind of funny and kind of pathetic all at the same time—did the idiots who sent in their pitiful woes to the paper _really_ think that she could make things better? Wave a magic wand, come up with the perfect answer, conjure up the perfect fairy tale? Seriously. But really, it wasn't Kathryn's fault. After all, 'Dear Kathryn' was probably just some dumb hack holding down two jobs and trying to make ends meet.

Bored, he turned to the front page. The headline story was about something Obama had done—somebody was making a law, and somebody else was very sorry about it. Stupid stuff. Below that was a short article about a local fire late last night—he glanced at it briefly, but lost interest upon seeing the words 'no casualties.'

He finished the rest of his pancakes in moody silence, brooding. As he put his plate into the sink, Eragon came down, looking disgustingly adorable in his pj's and messy hair. Marian stood up to greet him with a pancake offering and Murtagh fled upstairs to the safety of his room.

"Let's go, Thorn," he declared, opening his backpack and dumping all his books unceremoniously onto the desk. "It's a fine Saturday morning and let's get out of here!"

Thorn crawled to the edge of the bed, looking bemused. "I thought you were grounded? Didn't Garrow say that—"

"What, sorry, didn't hear that," Murtagh said briskly as he heaped the accumulation of textbooks into messy piles and shoved them to the very edge of his desk. He took his cigarettes and his lighter from their hiding place under his bed, stowing them into his backpack under a light cover of trash.

"You smell," Thorn pointed out judiciously. "You didn't shower yesterday, so why not take a shower first? Besides, I'm sure that Marian has Plans. Shopping plans or something."

"Which is exactly _why_ I want to get out before she corners me," Murtagh said.

"Yeah, but—"

"Zip it," Murtagh said, not looking at him. He grabbed Thorn and shoved him into the bag before the dog could protest, effectively cutting off any further protest. "Let's go, let's go, let's—"

"Murtagh!"

"—shit."

Murtagh gritted his teeth as Marian called his name from the foot of the stairs, clearly ready to charge up any second if he didn't respond. He took a deep breath through his nose, stifling the urge to strangle somebody—preferably Marian. "What?" he said finally, injecting all the sullenness he could into his voice.

"We're going to the store today!" she yelled. "You have to buy some new clothes! Get down in five!" Marian shouted, then apparently waltzed away to torment Eragon with pancakes.

Murtagh made a rude gesture at the innocent door. Inside his backpack, Thorn chuckled. "Told you so," he said, muffled but smug.

"I hate you."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment," Thorn said, his tail wagging.

* * *

Eragon came with them for what proved to be a short, albeit sulky, car ride. Marian attempted to strike up a conversation with Murtagh but ended up talking to her son instead as Murtagh stared out the window and answered all questions with monosyllabic answers: "Yeah." "No." "Uh." "What?"

They ended up going to the local mall—in a small suburb like Carvahall, that meant a one-story mall with about thirty shops in it. Nine o' clock on a Saturday morning, nobody in their right mind would be in a mall like this. Of course, that just proved that all or most of the adolescent population in Carvahall was insane, because the parking lot was crowded.

"Fuck," Murtagh muttered under his breath as he slouched reluctantly out of the car. Eragon actually had the nerve to look scandalized, to which Murtagh gave him the finger. Thankfully, Marian didn't notice.

"Gap? Abercrombie and Fitch? No, that's more for girls, isn't it? Saphira practically lives there," Marian prattled cheerfully while Murtagh crossed his arms, sixteen and sullen. "Let's see then. Urban Outfitters…why don't we try Old Navy? Or maybe…"

Murtagh ignored her, staring almost dreamily at the dirty white brick of the mall. Really, he should be grateful that Marian wasn't doing his clothes-shopping at Wal-Mart or the Salvation Army, but he couldn't quite bring himself to gratitude. Unbidden, his eyes slid toward Eragon's slight figure, narrowing as if in calculation.

Eragon didn't tell. Eragon _wouldn't_ tell. But could he be counted on to keep his silence? In Murtagh's experience, those of his own gender tended to fall into two categories: those that wailed like babies at the slightest bruise before waddling off to tell Mommy. And then there was the other extreme, those who wouldn't talk if their lives depended on it.

Then, of course, he was a cynical ass who had no middle ground. Murtagh smiled as the thought occurred to him—well, you can't deny truth, and anyway, most of his own gender had a tendency to avoid the weird foster kid with a face like a pizza and an attitude the side of Texas. Most of the opposite gender, too, now that he thought about it.

"Are you happy?" Eragon asked softly as they trundled after a still-jabbering Marian. Murtagh glanced at him, startled, before realizing that he was still wearing that idiotic smile on his face. It vanished instantly.

"Sod off," Murtagh said coolly, looking straight ahead.

He didn't like the look on Eragon's face—instead of the same prim horrified look he'd worn earlier, it was almost—ugh—_sympathetic_. Disgusting. Murtagh made a mental note to use the word 'fuck' in the future. Perhaps it would rile his highness into leaving Murtagh alone.

The parking lot had been deceptive; the mall was only lightly sprinkled with people here and there. Marian seemed to know exactly where she was going, which was a pleasant change from the waffling in the parking lot. She made a beeline for the back of the mall, where an Old Navy loomed large next to a Borders bookstore.

Eragon kept giving him little looks when he thought that Murtagh wasn't looking, something that Murtagh found supremely annoying. Then again, it wasn't really a _crime_ to look, leading to a total inability of Murtagh's to corner Eragon against the wall and demand that he stop. Murtagh pretended to be utterly absorbed in a pair of jeans Marian kept shoving onto him, pointedly turning his back on Eragon.

Marian engaged in a very long and complicated conversation with the saleslady, who kept on shoving more jeans onto Murtagh in about three different sizes each. Murtagh was sixteen and naturally heavyweight, but reality did not always agree with nature. Foster homes and constant moving had ensured a thin—not scrawny, but not really bulky either—figure and more importantly to Marian at the moment, Medium-sized jeans and sweatshirts.

Nevertheless, she seemed determined to see that he tried on every available size from Small to XL, something that Murtagh could've told her was totally unnecessary. This time, though, he didn't argue—the back of his neck prickled from the heat of Eragon's stares, and the dressing room offered blessed privacy.

He tried on nine pairs of jeans before he found one that was marginally comfortable. Carrying that pair on his left arm and the rest over his right arm like a valet, he stepped out of the dressing room to see a flash of golden blond hair bobbing up and down next to Marian's indulgent figure. His heart sank down into his knees as he ducked behind a nearby shelf.

"Hey, aren't you Murtagh?"

Murtagh glanced to his right to see the guy from the night before leaning nearby. He frowned distractedly, trying to place the name.

"Galbatorix," the man said. He didn't extend a hand to shake, and neither did Murtagh. Instead, Murtagh pinned him with a flat stare that didn't really seem to have any effect—Galbatorix simply smiled, showing off Hollywood-caliber teeth.

"Thanks for the cig," Galbatorix said casually.

"Yeah, whatever," Murtagh muttered.

"Saphira said you were cousins?" Galbatorix asked. Murtagh gave him a sharp look.

"Yeah, so?" he said at last. "What about it?"

"Nothing," Galbatorix said, smiling. Or leering. Murtagh was not a poet or a writer; he was hardly an expert when it came to waxing eloquent over smiles. But Galbatorix was definitely leering, something that _should_ have horrified Murtagh or at the very least, repulsed him. Instead, he found himself looking away quickly from that smouldering gaze, his mind inexplicably flashing onto the column in the newspapers: _Dear Kathryn, I'm gay…_

Guess what, Scared to Tell: I'm gay, too. And I think this really hot guy who is leaning way too close for comfort is trying to Tell Me Something. And frankly, I have _no idea why_.

Murtagh swallowed quickly. "You going to be in town for long?" He tried to keep his voice moderate, cool. It didn't really work, as his voice cracked in a most unmanly fashion.

"Long enough," Galbatorix said, his voice containing all the poise that Murtagh's didn't. He sidled closer, close enough that Murtagh could smell his cologne—but oddly enough, it smelled…bitter.

"Excuse me," Murtagh said hurriedly before anything else could be said. Holding the pile of jeans on his right arm between them like a protective barrier, he ducked out of the protective shelter of the shelf and straight into Saphira's little clique. They were less than thrilled to see him, but Murtagh could have cared less if it meant getting away from Galbatorix.

"This one fits," Murtagh muttered, gesturing with his left arm. "The others don't."

Saphira raised a perfect eyebrow. "You brought Murtagh?" she said to Marian.

"Yeah?" Murtagh said belligerently in response to her tone.

"Did I say anything, cousin?" she asked sweetly. "I think it's a lovely way to spend a Saturday morning."

Murtagh completely failed to come up with anything witty or scathing, because at that moment Eragon emerged from the dressing room and thus saved him from conversation. "Hey," he said to Saphira, sounding surprised. "I didn't know you guys were here too. Hey Arya, Shruikan."

"Hey, Eragon," Saphira said, and her tone was so different Murtagh had to check that it was the same person talking. Saphira's smile seemed to be genuine this time, as opposed to sarcastically sweet. "Yeah, we got up early this morning and decided to hang out together before Mom had to pick us up. You know, and we could let Galbatorix experience the joys of small town malls." She grinned.

"He's from the city, right?" Eragon said with interest. "Mom, this one fits," he added parenthetically, pointing to a red T-shirt. "Come on, this place probably can't even compare to Uru'baen."

"But it's small, and that gives it a personal touch the big city can't have," Galbatorix said smoothly from right behind Murtagh, and Murtagh jumped involuntarily. "You must be Mrs. Palancar. If I didn't know better, I'd've thought you two were sisters," he said with a charming smile, offering a hand for Marian to shake as he gestured at Saphira.

It was an old line and obviously false—for starters, Marian was brunette while Saphira was baby blond. But Marian yukked it up enthusiastically, blushing as she shook Galbatorix's hand. "I don't believe Saphira's introduced you!" she said playfully. "You would be…?"

"Galbatorix," he said. "I'm Shruikan's cousin."

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Galbatorix," Marian said. Murtagh, leaning as far away from Galbatorix as possible, raised an eyebrow at Arya's expression—the pixie Asian seemed disgusted at the display, her nose wrinkling.

_Well, that makes two of us,_ Murtagh thought, although honestly, he wasn't sure if it was disgust he was feeling. More like confusion. Was he just _imagining_ that Galbatorix was coming onto him? He had to be—when you can reduce women to putty with a charming smile and a smooth pitch, you don't need spotty sullen sixteen-year-olds to resolve whatever unresolved sexual tensions you have.

Then again, maybe Arya didn't appreciate the smooth pitch and charming smile either. Murtagh tried to catch her eye, but her eyes were fixed on Galbatorix as he struck up a conversation. Her mouth was twisted like she'd eaten a pickle. Huh. Or maybe it was jealousy. Who knew, with girls?

"So what're you guys going to do later today?" Saphira was saying when Murtagh managed to pry his head out of the clouds. "After shopping…?"

"Well, I thought we might go out for lunch," Marian said. "Maybe Ponderosa?"

Eragon's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Well, it's a special occasion—sort of—so I thought we might celebrate. You guys want to come along?" Marian said, gesturing at the Dream Team.

"No thanks," Saphira said after a glance at the others. "We'll go to the Wendys here when we're hungry."

"You guys going to shop for a long time?" Marian inquired.

"A while," Galbatorix said. "I'll only be staying until the end of the month, so I thought I might as well get to know the town while I can." He smiled in what he probably thought was a roguish way. "Care to introduce any good tourist spots, Mrs. Palancar?"

That seemed to do it; Marian launched into a long spiel about this park and that lake and that trail while Galbatorix seemed absolutely fascinated, dark eyes intense. Murtagh turned away from the conversation, trying hard not to eye Galbatorix's ass as he did. True, Galbatorix _did_ have a very nice butt. And body. And a whole lot of other things, probably.

Ogling was fine (if a little perverted), but the problem with that was that it generally led to Sex, which was Not Fine At All. Sex was conflict and lust and passion, none of which fit neatly into a foster kid's life. He was no virgin—hell, he'd lost his virginity at twelve due to rather—er—_interesting_—circumstances. But what was true last night remained true this morning—sex with an actual living, breathing human being was something that he didn't need right now, since it was liable to do more harm than good.

He'd just have to resist temptation. Yeah. He was brilliant at doing _that_, obviously, what with his eyes straying to...er, no, don't look at that, you perverted wank...

"You okay?"

Murtagh jumped slightly at the voice and light touch on his shoulder. It was Eragon, who was watching him with a concerned expression on his face. "You all right?" Eragon murmured quietly. "You look like you're choking."

Startled despite himself, Murtagh brushed the back of his hand over his lips, watching how Eragon's eyes jumped to the movement. "Um. Yeah," he said finally. Belatedly: "Okay."

Eragon gave him a puzzled look, and even more belatedly Murtagh realized that 'okay' wasn't the best response in this particular situation. But the word was already said; he could hardly take it back. Instead, Murtagh settled for looking away, turning his back yet again on Eragon.

Marian seemed to be winding down; Murtagh sidled closer, staying as far away from Galbatorix as he could. Not that the older man seemed to be paying him any attention—maybe Murtagh _was_ imagining it. Nah. There was no 'maybe' about it.

"That sounds lovely, Mrs. Palancar," Murtagh heard Galbatorix's silky-smooth voice say, and then there were preparations to bid friendly goodbyes and depart. Murtagh's eyes narrowed as he watched Saphira lean over and brush a sisterly kiss on Eragon's temple; her twin seemed embarrassed, but pleased.

"Saphira…!" Eragon said in a low undertone.

"Take care of yourself, runt," she said affectionately.

Eragon made a face but didn't reply. Saphira turned back to Marian and added, "I'll be back by four, Mom, I promise."

"Well, have fun," Marian said with a nod. "Don't eat too much at Wendys! You know that fried food is bad for your skin."

Saphira rolled her eyes at that, and Murtagh grudgingly had to admit that she had a point—Saphira's skin was perfect; zits were probably the last thing she was worried about.

"Bye, cousin," Saphira said, giving him a little twiddle of her fingers. Murtagh glanced at her and nodded curtly, crossing his arms across his chest. She raised a perfect eyebrow at this goodbye and whispered something to Arya, who giggled, eyes widening like she was watching a monkey at the zoo.

The quartet left with much giggling and whispering, and Murtagh clenched his teeth to keep from shouting after them. Fucking girls. And disgustingly hot guys.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself, low enough that Marian wouldn't hear.

"Why do you hate her?" Eragon asked softly, his eyes on his sister's departing figure. Murtagh glanced at him sharply, wondering or not whether to answer.

"Saphira," Eragon clarified, evidently under the misconception that Murtagh hadn't understood him. "Why do you hate her?"

Murtagh stared straight ahead at Marian's eagerly chattering form. "Hate everyone," he muttered at last in a rare moment of frankness.

"Seems like a sad way to live your life," Eragon said quietly.

Murtagh briefly considered punching Eragon's lights out but discarded the idea. Hitting a biological kid was the fastest way to get a one-way ticket back to the doghouse, and while he might resort to that one day, Murtagh wasn't entirely out of his mind yet.

"Fuck off. It's m_y_ life," Murtagh said coldly.

Eragon didn't answer for a long time. When he did, his voice was different—faraway, sort of, like he was thinking of something else.

"That Galbatorix gave me the creeps," Eragon said absently. "And he smelled weird."

Murtagh opened his mouth to make a nasty remark about Eragon's sense of smell and closed it, thinking. Smoke. That was the bitter smell Murtagh had mistaken for Galbatorix's cologne. Oops, he thought wryly, remembering the cigarette he had given Galbatorix yesterday. Murtagh had stubbed his out after one or two drags, but Galbatorix had probably smoked it till it was ashes.

Well, Murtagh was hardly corrupting a minor. Galbatorix had to be over twenty, at least.

"Smelled fine to me," Murtagh said at last, just to have something to say. It wasn't very witty, but it gave him an excuse to pick up the next round of jeans and retreat into the safety of the dressing room, away from Eragon and his annoyingly perceptive eyes.

* * *

The longest time Murtagh had stayed in any foster home was when he was eight, with an old lady named Ms. Thompson. Whether she was ever married, he didn't know, but there was certainly no man in the house in the year that he stayed there. Instead, Ms. Thompson had cats. Cats and Murtagh to 'keep an old biddy company,' as she liked to say.

Thorn had been incredibly jealous, of course, but Murtagh had been fascinated by the cats. Ms. Thompson ran a shelter for strays, so to speak—she would set saucers of milk out in her backyard for any kitty who felt like strolling by. Sometimes they stayed, sometimes they didn't, but there were always at least half a dozen cats prowling in and out of the run-down two-story home.

There had been one cat that he'd been particularly fond of. The cat—well, kitten really—was very young and weak when he found it in the backyard—maybe a couple months old. It was black; with all the creativity an eight-year-old could muster, he'd christened it 'Blackie.'

Then Blackie got run over by a car, Ms. Thompson died of a heart attack, and off he went to another foster home, this one run by a sour old stick who believed in seven o'clock bedtimes and good old fashioned paddling. He'd lasted…three months there. Give or take a couple days. He wasn't sure if the last week (which he'd spent hiding in the woods as far away as from the bitch as possible) really counted.

He'd built a home for himself in that year, in Ms. Thompson's quiet little home out in the country. In the space of about a week, some half-assed quirk of fate had swept it all away. In the end, he was stuck with a ragged backpack containing all his worldly possessions and of course, Thorn.

If there was a moral in that, he sure didn't see one. Except maybe that it didn't pay for foster kids to get close to people. Sooner or later they'd haul you out on your ass—and if _they_ didn't, then rest assured that _somebody else_ was going to personally make sure that Murtagh Morzanson's life was as fucked up as possible.

So yeah, maybe it was an extremely fucking 'sad way' to live his life, as Eragon had so tactfully put it. But frankly, after sixteen years on this lovely planet? It was all he had.

* * *

"Sounds like you had fun today," Thorn murmured, huddling against Murtagh's chest. Murtagh was sprawled across his bed, staring glumly up at the stars.

"Ngh," he said noncommittally. He sighed, rubbing his palms against his eyes.

"It's a free country," Thorn said gently, nudging him. "You're free to say whatever you like, too."

"I'm not upset," Murtagh denied vehemently. "Like I care what a bunch of airheads say about me behind my back?"

Thorn gave him a patient look. "Not _Saphira_," he said, pronouncing the name clearly like he thought Murtagh was an idiot. "_Eragon._"

"I'm not upset about that either," Murtagh said sharply, glaring daggers at Thorn.

"Of course not," Thorn said soothingly, but both he and Murtagh knew that Murtagh was lying his ass off. It did bother him. More than it should have.

"Well, I guess I'll get some Kleenex and start crying now," Murtagh said nastily, sitting up. "Should I start now? Do I get bonus points if I snot all over the place? Or should I just—"

"None of the above, because obviously you don't care," Thorn said cheerfully.

"That's right, I don't," Murtagh said fiercely. "And don't you forget it."

"Of course not," Thorn said. Murtagh glanced at him sharply for signs of sarcasm, but Thorn's button eye practically sparkled with innocence. Disgruntled, Murtagh dropped back onto the bed, his fingers roughly petting Thorn's ears.

His reflection stared at him balefully from the mirror over the nightstand, showing him just how much of a mess he was. His hair was disheveled, and in the harsh fluorescent glare his skin looked disgusting—teenage acne at its worst. The frown crease between his eyebrows was going to be permanent at this rate. He looked...well, like a train wreck. Not that he was pitying himself (because he wasn't), but he did.

"You aren't that bad," Thorn said idly. Murtagh glanced at him; Thorn regarded him mildly over a heap of blankets. "You're more cynical when it comes to yourself than others, Murtagh."

Murtagh shrugged. "I hate everyone. I don't think you can get much more cynical than _that_, Thorn."

"Yeah, you can," Thorn said quietly, but he didn't elaborate. Murtagh sighed deeply and continued to stroke Thorn's ears, his fingers gentling as he worked his way down the dog's spine.

There was a quiet knock on the door. Murtagh looked up in mild surprise before quickly shoving Thorn under the blankets. "Come in," he said, wondering who it could be. And more importantly, what the hell did they want…

It was Eragon.

"What?" Murtagh said blankly after a long moment rolled by. Eragon seemed frozen at the door, his lips working.

"I..."

"You what?"

A slight tinge of pink brushed Eragon's cheeks as he stared at the ground. "I wanted to apologize," he mumbled at last. "For what I said today. I mean, I guess I don't have any right to judge you, because—well—I just don't. So I'm sorry."

Murtagh stared, at a loss for words.

After about a minute rolled by, Eragon turned around and closed the door, leaving as quietly as he had entered. Murtagh continued to stare blankly at the space Eragon had vacated, the words Uh, what? summed up the mess in his brain perfectly.

"Huh?" he managed after about a minute.

"Brilliant as ever," Thorn said from underneath the covers, his voice muffled.

Murtagh pawed at the bedsheets until he excavated Thorn from the heap of blankets. "What was that about?" he demanded, shaking the dog. "Did he just—just—"

"You have ears, didn't you hear?" Thorn said, and his tail wagged as he grinned broadly. "Heh. I rhymed! I'm a poet and didn't know—"

Whatever else Thorn had to say was lost as Murtagh slid off the bed and swung the door open. The door to Eragon's room was open, and the younger boy was sitting by his bookshelf, reading a book. He looked up as Murtagh entered.

It was Murtagh's turn to be tongue-tied; he wet his lips as he thought frantically of something to say. He hadn't really _rehearsed_ this, per se—as soon as his brain had kicked into gear, it had taken over his body, propelling him into Eragon's room without so much as a by-your-leave. "Um," Murtagh said brilliantly.

Eragon watched him, his hand still hovering in mid-air as if to turn a page. "You—" Murtagh tried, then sighed.

"Yes?"

"Thanks," Murtagh said finally.

Surprisingly, the words weren't as painful as he'd thought it would be, and it was made easier by the fact that Eragon didn't smirk or giggle or any of a dozen inane things. Murtagh exhaled slowly, feeling as if a huge weight had fallen off his shoulders—something he wasn't aware that existed, but he knew the difference when it was finally gone. Eragon smiled, tentatively.

Murtagh didn't—couldn't—match it. Not yet. But he did manage a civil nod, which really was all that necessary.

At least, for now.

* * *

**Whoo boy. It's been like, what, 3 months? X.X Er, would you guys believe me if I said a giant pumpkin flew through the window and smashed my computer?**

**EEEEP. Anyway, hope you liked the chapter. :) Review luffs? And please don't kill me even though it's taken me forever to update? –cheesy grin-**

**Mistress-of-Misery**: I have noted your nitpick and corrected it. By avoiding the subject, hee. And you should know that I have absolutely no plot! XD I am totally making this up as I go along. And Nasuada will appear...someday. Just not today. Meh.

**Flyingxdragonx123**: Oh, yeah. Someday Murtagh –will- have to outgrow Thorn and that'll be just heartbreaking in and out of itself. –sighs- Yeah, I know about Saphira. My reasoning is thus: Saphira is a dragon and therefore a snot. In _Eragon_ (the book) she didn't like Murtagh much at first, either, but she's fiercely protective of Eragon. So yeah. XD

**XXCrazylySaneXX: **Thanks! And I guess three months –isn't- updating soon, but hey, life sucks. Just be glad you're not Murtagh! :D

**Obsidian Thunder**: I can never understand the point of eyeshadow, and I once read this book about the oil content of makeup that has scared me off makeup absolutely. I'm like Murtagh, with horrible acne. :) Hey, misery loves company…

**Silver-Serval**: The EraMur is coming! But will it be enough to combat the wily Galbatorix? Stay tuned! Dun dun dun! And lol, _Child, Child_ kind of makes me wince whenever I reread it these days. XD But Thorn –is- cute, ain't he? –squishes-

**Xment2bursX**: So far, I've got Ideas for Eragon and Saphira. You think I should knock off Marian? To make it canon-compliant and all...dunno. I'm just making this up as I go along. –cuddles Murtagh- Yeah, poor boy just needs a hug!


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